A Line of Blood

‘That’s most kind of you, Mr Sharpe,’ said Millicent.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I found myself saying. ‘Really very kind indeed.’ The man’s formality was catching.

Mr Sharpe smiled a benign smile. ‘Of course, it’s summer break soon, and Max will be leaving us in a few short weeks. Was there anything else?’

‘Not unless there’s anything you would like us to address at home,’ I said, surprised that he hadn’t mentioned Max’s swearing.

‘No, as I said, a well-brought-up boy. Nice circle of friends, never in trouble. Studious, but not a prig. Neither a victim nor a bully. He listens in class, he does his homework, he reads well. He will settle well into secondary school life; I have no doubt of it. I’m not really sure what more I can say.’

‘Well parented, you said?’ asked Millicent.

‘Yes, a credit to you and your husband.’

‘He doesn’t seem in any way odd to you?’

‘Dear me, no. Why?’

We didn’t see Max as we left the school.

‘Shouldn’t that man be a country schoolmaster somewhere in the middle of the 1950s?’ I said.

‘I kind of liked him,’ said Millicent.

‘Me too. Strange that Max likes him so much, though.’

‘Kids don’t like teachers who want to hang out; they don’t like for adults to talk about hip hop and social networking. They want to know where the line is, and what will happen when they cross that line. Especially boys. They’re kind of hardwired conservative at that age.’

‘But how does that work here in Crappy?’

‘So many questions, Alex. Aren’t you tired?’

Seventy hours of footage sitting on my computer. Five days to view it.

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